


Rock and Roll Damnation

by Crystalshard



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, Live Aid, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Rock Star Crowley (Good Omens), off screen drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 09:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalshard/pseuds/Crystalshard
Summary: It's 1970, Crowley's just finished with the M25, and the era of sex, drugs, and rock & roll is booming. Hell wants in on the music scene and all its corruption, and they send Crowley to do their work.AKA: Crowley dresses like a washed-up rock star because hewasone.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Rock and Roll Damnation

**Author's Note:**

> Please do read the tags, and please also let me know if there's anything else you think I need to tag for. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy rock star Crowley!

**April, 1973**

Crowley sauntered past the tattered poster that read _Reaching for the sky is called surrendering,_ turned left at the pipe that had been leaking green ooze for the last six centuries, and opened the door marked 'Prince of Hell' without knocking. 

Beelzebub looked up from the paperwork strewn across zir desk and scowled. "Crowley. Come in and shut the door." 

Crowley did as requested, assembling himself into something approaching attention as he stood before zir desk. "You summoned me, Lord Beelzebub?" 

The scowl remained. "I know I summoned you. I have been reading your reports -" 

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley's eyes widened in panic.

"- and now that you've finished with that road thing, I have a new assignment for you." With zir attention on rummaging through the scattered pieces of paper in front of zir, zie completely missed the look of utter relief on Crowley's face. "Ah. It says here that you have introduced bodily pleasure and poisonous narcotics to this 'rock and roll' culture." 

Honestly, the humans had managed that all by themselves, but Crowley was definitely not above taking credit for that kind of thing. "Sex and drugs. Yes, Lord." 

"Your new assignment is to ensure that as many of these 'rock stars' as you can manage are corrupted and destined for Hell." Beelzebub finally found the form zie had been searching for and shoved it in front of Crowley. "Here. Sign this." 

Turning the form the right way up, Crowley read through it. And then the small print. And then conjured up an oversize magnifying glass for the _really_ small print, and cut several burning lines through the more restrictive clauses. Beelzebub rolled zir eyes, but zie had stopped complaining aloud after the seventh century B.C. 

Finally, Crowley was satisfied, and he signed his True Name in demon-born hellfire on the document. Beelzebub pulled the form away before he'd even shaken his fingertip free of flame, and zie glowered down at it. "Now get out of my office. Oh, and send Dagon in to see me." 

Crowley left Beelzebub's office with the feeling that he had narrowly escaped very big trouble. If they'd found out about that thermos from six years ago . . . well, they hadn't. And now he had to figure out how to get into the rock and roll scene and stay there. 

**August, 1976**

Crowley winced at the discordance as Ted tuned his guitar, hiding his face in the sheet music that he was supposed to be studying. "Ted, have you seen Harry yet? We're on stage in half an hour." 

Ted left off torturing the defenceless guitar to glance around the rather chilly bathroom that was serving as their dressing room. Unsurprisingly, it was empty except for the two of them and some plastic chairs that were wedged along the wall. "Nah. Jimmy should be here in a couple minutes, though." 

As if the words had summoned him, the door opened, letting a burst of humid heat, a brief roar of sound, and the long-haired figure of their drummer. "Hey Ted, hey Red." 

"Jimmy!" greeted Crowley. "How long was the argument with the stage crew this time?" 

Jimmy grinned. "Only a minute or two. There's a few guys here we've worked with before, they know the layout for our kit." 

Ted snorted as he resumed tuning his guitar. "I still haven't forgiven you for that late start in Birmingham because you refused to go on until that stagehand had apologised." 

Jimmy flopped into one of the empty plastic chairs. "Alright, alright, I'll buy you a drink after the show. Won't you ever let go of that one?"

Ted grinned, the strings under his hands mellowing into the right notes. "Not while I can still get you to buy the beer." He ducked as Jimmy swatted at him half-heartedly. "Red, pass me Harry's bass, I'll get that tuned while we're waiting." 

Crowley extracted the instrument from the case that was squashed against his knee and passed it to Ted, who promptly began the off-key strumming that preceded his tuning method. Crowley re-buried his nose in the sheet music, as Jimmy idly rolled his drumsticks against his thigh to the rhythm of _The Boys Are Back In Town_. 

Pausing on his read-through, Crowley frowned at a particular chord sequence. "Hey Ted, why did you change the chords for _Love in the Grey_? It's going to be a pain to switch between them on the keyboard."

Ted paused, his thumb brushing idly against the E string of the bass. "Yeah, but it'll be easier for Harry to follow. He's been having trouble with them, and I know you can adjust better than he can." 

Jimmy huffed derisively. "He wouldn't have as much trouble if he'd stop snorting coke before performances." 

Ted opened his mouth to refute that, then sighed and closed it again. 

Crowley kept his opinions to himself. True, he could miracle the addiction out of Harry's body, but according to Head Office he was supposed to be encouraging drug use. This particular case just happened to be personally inconvenient. 

The door banged open again. "Heeeeeey, guys!" warbled Harry, who was listing a little to the side and whose eyes were nearly bright enough to use as spotlights. "What's shaking?" 

"You are, you pillock," Jimmy said in exasperation. "Red, help me get his head under the tap?" 

"Sure," Crowley agreed, setting aside the modified sheet music. He could always use a quiet miracle on the keyboard, after all. 

Between the two of them, it wasn't hard to shove Harry's blond head under the cold running water in the sink. With the help of a minor miracle, he'd be sober enough to play by the time they were due on stage. 

* * *

Crowley waved to the fans as he and the others jogged onto the stage. Echoing around them, the announcer's voice filled the space between them and the audience. "And to warm you up before the main show, heeeeere's _Brimstone!_" 

With a quick glance backwards, Crowley took in his bandmates' status one last time. Harry, squinting against the stage lighting but otherwise steady with his bass in hand; Jimmy, twirling his sticks the way he did when he felt comfortable on stage; and Ted, smiling at the audience with his thumb petting the neck of his guitar. 

Ted led them into the first notes of _Highway_ with a crash of chords, and Crowley ran a quick few bars on the keyboard before leaning into the microphone. 

_"If you're going my way,_  
_Take it to the highway,_  
_If you're gonna run, then run to me,_  
_If you're gonna turn, then turn and see . . ."_

**January, 1979**

Aziraphale wished he'd had the foresight to bring some kind of ear protection. The music was dreadfully loud, even at the back of the venue, and he didn't intend to stay longer than it took to perform the blessing and go. Why in Heaven's name was a perfectly nice young woman, who had an audition for an orchestra the next day, ruining her hearing here? 

Well, that wasn't his problem. A little touch of luck, a sprinkle of self-confidence, a few drops of calm, and the effects of a good night's sleep no matter how late she stayed up - those should do the job of getting her that orchestra seat she needed so desperately. 

The blessing settled nicely, and Aziraphale was about to attempt to squeeze his way back to the doors when he heard a very familiar voice. 

_". . . and I live my life _  
_And my love in the grey,_  
_There's no black and white,_  
_There's no Heaven today . . ."_

Aziraphale whipped around so fast that he nearly elbowed the young man in a black leather jacket standing next to him. There on stage was the was unmistakable figure of Crowley, wearing a rather ridiculous moustache and a black t-shirt with orange-yellow flames printed on it. Three other men, all clad in similar t-shirts, stood behind adding to the clamour with various instruments. 

"Hey!" hissed Leather Jacket. 

"Sorry!" Aziraphale whispered back. "Er, who's playing right now?" 

Leather Jacket rolled his eyes, but answered. "Think they're called _Brimstone_. They've been the warm-up act on a couple of concerts I've been to, but no-one's ever here for the warm-ups. Hope this is their last number, I want to hear the real band." 

"Thank you," Aziraphale said politely, then let the conversation subside as a woman whose hair seemed to be twice the volume of her head turned around and glared at them. 

When Crowley's song came to an end, and the audience started screaming for whichever peculiarly-named musicians they were here for, Aziraphale turned around and headed for the exit like a well-mannered bumper car. 

* * *

It was surprisingly easy for Aziraphale to find his way backstage. Even without miracles, the crew seemed to look at him and then look away, their duties more pressing than a strange but well-dressed man who wasn't a fan, a reporter, or getting in the way. 

A brief question gained Aziraphale directions and a raised eyebrow. The angel dutifully followed the verbal map, hesitated for a moment outside the unmarked door, then pushed it open. 

". . . least it's a proper dressing room and not the loo this time . . . Oh."

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley with his shirt off before. The demon paused in the act of wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with a black t-shirt, and looked back at Aziraphale in what was probably surprise behind those dark lenses.

"Hey, mister. You lost?" asked one of the men with the oddly-shaped lutes. 

Crowley held out a calming hand to his bandmates, not taking his eyes off Aziraphale. "It's okay, guys. He's a friend." 

The other three men appeared to accept this, although the blond one giggled and singsonged, "Oh, he's a _frieeeeeend_."

"Er - yes. Yes, I am," agreed Aziraphale, who was more than a little adrift in the currents that ran between the members of the band. 

The long-haired one slapped Crowley on the back. "'S all right, Red. We'll get your stuff packed up, just be back tomorrow morning at eight. Hey Ted, you know if there's a decent pub around here?" 

Aziraphale found himself gently but firmly ushered out the door with Crowley, who seemed to have somehow acquired a burgundy shirt and a black leather jacket on his way out. 

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said contritely. "I believe I may have given the wrong impression." 

"I'd say so, yeah," Crowley agreed, shrugging into the shirt and jacket with an efficiency that spoke of long practice. "Still, this is the music business. People tend to keep their noses to themselves." 

"Well, you could always say that the - er, what's the word? Ah yes, the 'talent scout' decided to look elsewhere." Aziraphale beamed at Crowley, rather pleased with his invention.

"Talent scout. Right. That's what they mistook you for. Come on, this way, they put me up in a nearby hotel. We can talk privately there about . . . whatever it is that you're here about." 

Aziraphale, deciding that Shakespeare had been right about the better part of valour being discretion, simply nodded. 

* * *

Aziraphale took over the lone chair in the hotel room, which meant that Crowley was left to lounge on the bed in dubious splendour. Crowley didn't mind that in the slightest, since even the slightly saggy mattress was more comfortable than the barely-padded chair the room had been equipped with. "All right, you'd better tell me," Crowley said once the mattress had been squashed into submission and he'd poured himself and Aziraphale wine from the rather cheap bottle that had come with the room. "What's going on?" 

If angels could blush, Aziraphale would have. As it was, he glanced aside and wriggled enticingly. "Er - well, there isn't anything of import, dear boy. I was at the concert to perform a blessing for a rather nice young lady who plays the oboe, and I heard you singing. Dreadful lyrics, may I add." 

For a moment, Crowley felt mildly offended on behalf of Ted, who'd taken Crowley's drunken and maudlin rambles and made some rather catchy songs out of them. "Rock and roll, angel. Doesn't matter if they're terrible as long as they're singable." 

"I didn't even know you could sing." 

Crowley's lips pressed into a thin line. "We all could, once." 

"Oh." Even Aziraphale, as oblivious as he could be in some cases, occasionally noticed that he'd pushed a little too far. This appeared to be one of those times. "I'm terribly sorry, Crowley." 

"Nah, it's alright," Crowley lied dismissively. "Not like I remember much of the old birdcage anyway." He forced a grin. "Anyway, I just have to think about how your bosses would feel about the kind of singing that's popular now, and I feel much better. Their haloes would probably explode if they ever heard it." 

Aziraphale let out a laugh that he probably hadn't meant to set free, but once it started he couldn't stop it. "Oh, you wicked creature," he said fondly. "Exploding haloes, indeed." 

"Hell, on the other hand, now there's a place that appreciates good music, and not just classical. They've even set up a disco of sorts down there." Not that any of the demons could dance, but they did enjoy the attempt. 

"A . . . disco?" Aziraphale asked, frowning. 

"Yes, a disco. Big room, full of multicoloured lights and loud music where people go to dance? No? Never mind, I'm sure you'll see one sooner or later." 

"And they listen to this . . . rock and roll there?" Aziraphale picked up his discarded wineglass, a distracted thought changing the contents from poor quality to a distinctly better vintage.

"All the popular stuff," Crowley agreed. "Elton John, David Bowie, Queen . . ." 

Aziraphale's mouth dropped open as his eyes widened in distress. "Her Majesty sings this music?" 

"No, no, angel," Crowley assured him quickly. "It's just the name of the band, nothing to do with the Queen of England. Well, she might like them, I don't know." 

Aziraphale's look of relief was entirely out of proportion to the explanation, Crowley decided. Then the look morphed into a frown, and Crowley tensed subconsciously. "Ah, Crowley? Why _are_ you in one of these rock and roll bands?" 

"Orders from below, angel," Crowley said, avoiding Aziraphale's searching eyes by glaring at his own wineglass. It promptly became a wine that didn't actually exist in the current day. "Plenty of opportunities to sin in the music world, and it's easiest to encourage that from the inside. Actually met a few of the famous ones." 

"And corrupt them, I suppose?" Aziraphale asked rhetorically.

Crowley knocked back half of his glass. "If you'd ever met them, you'd know I don't need to. They do it all to themselves. Though I did help to organise a party for Elton John once - Rome had nothing on the orgies you get with today's millionaires." 

"Crowley, really," Aziraphale protested. 

"Yeah, you're right, I don't want to talk about it." Crowley idly willed his glass full again. "Get any new books in recently?" 

To Crowley's poorly hidden relief, Aziraphale let it drop. "Well, I did recently acquire a delightful first edition of _What Katy Did_ . . ." 

**September, 1984**

Aziraphale was peacefully repairing the spine of a rather foxed seventeenth-century Bible when he became aware of the noise outside. The screech of car tyres decelerating much too fast, the familiar growl of the Bentley's engine, and a sudden burst of ". . . JUST GIVE ME A CALL, DON'T STOP ME NOW . . ." as the driver's door opened and shut. 

After all that, the tinkle of the bell over the bookshop's door was entirely redundant. 

"Over here, Crowley," Aziraphale called, setting aside the repaired tome and putting the lid back onto the glue. 

Familiar footsteps sounded, and Crowley appeared around one of the bookcases. "Aziraphale! Good, glad to find you here. I need a miracle." 

The sofa behind Aziraphale went _fwump_ as Crowley collapsed onto it, and Aziraphale turned in his chair to cast a dubious eye over the demon. "I assume there's a reason you can't perform it yourself?" 

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale noted with relief that he'd shaved off that terrible moustache. "I need - well, not me, but - I need you to extend someone's life. If he dies now, Hell might have a claim on him, and he's too good a man to go down there." 

"Ah. That would be why you can't do this one, you can't be seen to defy Hell." 

"Exactly." Crowley seemed to relax further into the cushions. 

"Very well, then. Whose life am I to extend?" Aziraphale sat to attention, leaning forward and aiming all of his considerable focus at Crowley.

"His name's Freddie Mercury. He's the lead singer of the band Queen - you remember, I told you about some of them? Freddie's one of the ones I met." 

"Yes, I remember. Do you have a photograph I can focus on?" 

One of Crowley's long arms extended with a colour photo. On it were seven young men and a demon, awkward smiles on most of their faces. "The one in the yellow jacket, angel." 

Aziraphale took the photo and studied the one in yellow. Dark hair, moustache, an odd sort of fragility in the eyes that Aziraphale didn't need angelic powers to sense. "Oh, the poor boy," Aziraphale murmured, only a fraction of his awareness still in the bookshop. "He doesn't even know yet. I can't heal him, but I can . . . yes. There." Aziraphale blinked back to himself to see Crowley watching him anxiously. "Perhaps ten years, that's the best I can do. I'm sorry." 

"It's all right," Crowley said, reaching to take back the photo. "It'll give him a chance. That's all I wanted." 

"Such a shame," Aziraphale said, letting it go reluctantly. "Music that brings joy to so many, and it's condemning men and women to - well, to your side." 

"Not all of them," Crowley objected. "Take David Bowie. He's got no shame at all when it comes to physical pleasures, and he doesn't believe love should hurt anyone. He could take a new lover every day from now until the millennium and he'd still be one of yours." 

Aziraphale felt an inexplicable, white-hot bolt of wrath at this Bowie, whoever he was. "And did you find this out in person?" 

Crowley straightened up from his half-sprawled position on the bookshop's divinely comfortable sofa. "What's it to you, angel?" 

Aziraphale glanced aside. He was an angel, he wasn't supposed to make snap judgements. Bowie was probably a very pleasant person once you got to know him. "Nothing, of course. I just . . . well, it doesn't matter." 

Crowley slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked at Aziraphale with yellow eyes that were as hard to read as if they'd still been shielded. Just as Aziraphale started to worry that this time, Crowley might actually push that line of questions further, Crowley sighed and shoved his lenses back into place. "It's my job, angel. Temptation and corruption, push souls a little further down the path to hell." 

"Well, that's the thing, Crowley." Aziraphale leaned forward, gratefully discarding the subject of promiscuous rock stars. "With all this . . . rock and roll business, and all the, ah, drugs and the sex that goes with it, our Arrangement is getting rather unbalanced. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it - I'm being sent to Ethiopia to help solve that famine, which means that I won't be here to thwart you. Between you and me, Crowley, it's rather too much for one angel to handle." 

Crowley froze in place, his only movement coming from his head as he slowly tipped it sideways. "But maybe, not too much for an angel and a demon," he said distantly. "Favour for a favour. Aziraphale. You've got contacts among the news reporters, haven't you?" 

Aziraphale frowned a little, but he'd seen that look before - usually just prior to Crowley coming up with something that would never occur to him. "I do. A few in the newspapers and on the radio, one or two in television . . ." 

Crowley pointed at him. "Television. Good. We're going to need video. As for me, I know people who know people." A razor-sharp smile flashed across Crowley's face. "I think I have an idea." 

**July, 1985**

"Millions, Crowley! Isn't it wonderful? Oh, this should certainly solve the hunger problem in Ethiopia." 

Crowley tossed a piece of bread to the ducks as he listened to Aziraphale rattle on about Live Aid. It had worked better than either of them had hoped - a word from Aziraphale that perhaps the famine was newsworthy, and then a comment or two from Crowley that spread so subtly into the music industry that they never realised it had been his whisper that started the avalanche. 

"Just think of it - all the food, the clean water, the grain for growing crops, everything they need to get back on their feet. Heaven is delighted - they gave me a commendation, did you know? An actual commendation." 

"That's wonderful, angel." Crowley threw another piece of bread, and the duck who suspiciously scooped it up looked almost surprised as it failed to sink. Crowley's foot knocked against the case of the bass guitar resting against the railings, and he steadied the instrument with a touch.

"I don't recall seeing your band there, though." 

"Oh, we're nowhere near the same league as the big boys," Crowley said with a well-practiced shrug. "Anyway, we're splitting up. Jimmy's getting married, and Ted's got an offer from another band who need a good guitarist. As for me, my assignment to the music scene is up soon." 

"Oh." Aziraphale looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be pleased or sympathetic. "I see. I, ah, hope they do well." 

"So do I, angel," Crowley said. He'd met many humans over the centuries, and he'd left them all behind. He'd probably do the same with Ted and Jimmy - no point in letting Hell know about a potential weak spot.

Harry, though. Harry, he couldn't leave behind. 

Hell was as delighted as Heaven with the results of Live Aid. It was one more thing that he'd keep from Aziraphale, and Somebody knows he'd had enough experience at that. The knowledge that Hell were planning to siphon most of the funds into the hands of Ethiopia's corrupt government was a secret he'd hold until the end of times, if necessary. And another secret, more personal - he'd keep that too.

He'd never mention how he and Jimmy had found Harry in his hotel room, cold and still with a frozen grin on his face and drug dust around his nose. How _Brimstone_ were separating, not due to outside influence, but because they didn't have the heart to go on without their bassist. How Harry was down in Hell right this minute, and Crowley might as well have thrown him to damnation himself. 

No. He'd keep that from the angel. He didn't deserve to deal with Crowley's guilt. 

_Never again, do you hear me?_ Crowley thought resentfully at the uncaring sky as his fingers brushed the bass's case. _I won't be part of Your tests again. Not if you're going to destroy them for it._


End file.
